Jeremy Meets Donald
by JPDevour
Summary: Jeremy Corbyn is trying to be a good socialist, but when he meets Donald Trump and his heart starts fluttering, will he throw all that away?


"Thanks John, speak to you tomorrow."

Jeremy switched his phone off and allowed himself to slump into a large leather armchair. What a day it had been – trips to Nantwich and Crewe – and he couldn't wait to put his feet up and enjoy a plate of room service. Thinking this, he turned the TV on and reached for the menu. Lasagne, delicious.

"US Presidential Candidate Donald Trump has landed at Heathrow ahead of a brief tour of the UK as he looks to improve upon his foreign affairs credibility ahead of November's election…"

Jeremy's mind slowly began to wander from the lasagne he had just ordered, and focused on the screen: Donald Trump was in the UK. He watched as the golfing magnate stepped off the plane, waving to a crowd of reporters and he strode through the drizzle into the terminal.

"I'm delighted to received such an enthusiastic reception from the British people," Trump was telling a BBC interviewer, "there is a lot of enthusiasm for the Trump campaign here in Britain. The people are enthusiastic for Trump."

And as he watched, Jeremy, without knowing how or why it was happening, began to slide his hand down his shirt, under the waistband of his trousers, and down to where he was slowly growing harder and harder…

The car was rattling along and Jeremy was standing to feel sick.

"Steve, can you go a little slower or I'll need to pull over in a Little Chef," he said, clutching at his churning tummy.

"Sorry boss, they don't have Little Chefs anymore. It's all Welcome Breaks and Motos…"

Jeremy managed to fade Steve's voice out. They were on their way down south to Watford, where Donald Trump was meeting small business owners to discuss the British economy. Some Momentum activists had arranged to protest Trump and Jeremy, in a show of solidarity, was to give a speech condemning his Islamophobic comments. But, after last night, it was all feeling a bit weird…

"...we're almost there anyway, boss," said Steve, pointing out the window, "look, there's the protest."

Sure enough, a large group of young men with placards were standing out in the rain. Steve pulled the car up beside them and they began to cheer.

"Jez we can! Jez we can! Jez we can!" rang out across the stormy afternoon skies.

Feeling a little better all of a sudden, Jeremy stepped out of the car and waved to his acolytes. Someone, without him requesting it, was handing him a microphone and he was being ushered onto a makeshift podium.

"Donald Trump is not welcome in the UK!" he heard himself saying, even as he couldn't help but find himself thinking of a place Donald Trump _would_ be welcome.

"Great speech Mr Corbyn – very provocative."

The voice came from behind him and he jumped slightly. Turning, he saw a man in a dark suit and sunglasses, speaking with a thick Texan drawl.

"Thank you," Jeremy spluttered, "are you from Democrats Overseas?"

The man laughed outloud as though Jeremy had made a much funny joke than he had ever made in his life.

"No sir," he said, "I'm part of Mr Trump's security retinue. He was wondering if he could have a word with you."

"I don't think so, sorry," said Jeremy, taken aback, "I'm rather busy.'

The man stepped in closer and Jeremy could smell the peppermint Orbit on his breath.

"You said some pretty unpleasant things about Mr Trump. I think that it's in your best interests to give him the time of day. Maybe you can work on an apology."

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. An apology! That wasn't something Jeremy was used to offering and certainly he wouldn't offer it to a man like Donald Trump. Unless… no, he had to put those thoughts out of his mind.

"Fine," he found himself saying before he really understood why, "I'll see him briefly. But we have to be back in London this evening, so I can't stay long."

"It won't take long, Mr Corbyn…"

The room was empty when Jeremy stepped in and he heard the door click shut behind him. Against one wall was a white chaise lounge and, against the other, a white rocking horse, but there was no other furniture in the room. Nor was there any sign of Trump.

"Hello?" Jeremy called out, even though he knew no-one could hear him.

But, right on cue, a door at the other end of the room opened, and Trump himself walked in, beaming at Jeremy.

"Corbyn, Corbyn! I'm delighted that you took up our invitation. The British people have been very responsive to Trump here in the Watford. I'm glad you are too."

"I'm not responsive to you, or anything about you," Jeremy spluttered, "I was just attempting to be polite."

"You weren't very polite in your speech. We know things about you Jeremy, Crooked Jeremy they call you in the media. We don't have to be polite to you!" And, with that, Trump gave a crooked smile like a dog staring up from its shit.

"The media is completely biased against me!" shouted Jeremy, his voice echoing off the naked walls.

"Don't I know! The biased media don't cover the real stories," said Trump stepping forward, closer to Jeremy, "they want Hilary in the White House and Teresa May in Downing Street. Do these women have the stamina? Do they have the stamina of men like us? No! It's sad!"

Trump's hand was on the head of the rocking horse, his fingers clutched in its flowing mane. He was still a few feet from Jeremy, but he could hear the British man's heart beating. He smiled and began to pull the rocking horse's head in closer, towards himself…

"They don't understand you Corbyn, but I understand! Trump represents the American people, Corbyn represents the English people. Together, we represent White people everywhere…"

The horse's head was pressed into Trump's crotch as the two men made furious eye contact. Then, with a smile, Trump released the horse and shrugged.

"It's up to you Corbyn. It could be great!"

It could be great, Jeremy thought. It could be wonderful. Or it could destroy everything. With that thought in his mind, he turned from Trump but didn't move towards the door. He didn't move at all but stood there and closed his eyes.

All at once, he felt hot arms around his shoulders and his body pulled into a tight embrace.

"Oh, Donald…" he moaned, as he hand unfastened his belt.

As his trousers came off he felt behind him and realised that Trump was naked too, and pushing him towards the chaise lounge. Turning, he saw the glistening hairless body of Donald Trump, as the tiny hands continued to pump his cock.

"Oh, Donald…" he moaned again, stripped down to nothing but his white vest and a pair of M&S grey socks.

As Trump began to push him over onto the chaise lounge, Jeremy pulled himself free, turning to face Trump and kiss him on his big manly lips. "No…" Jeremy whispered, "I'm in charge here."

And, with that, he pulled Trump around and pushed him onto the chaise lounge so that his face was up against the wall and his ass was high in the air, waiting to be penetrated. And that's just what Jeremy did, repeatedly, as Trump groaned and chanted "Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" into the empty air of the room.

Finally, when he could take no more, Jeremy removed himself from the businessman's butthole, and pulled him onto his knees so that he would face him at dick-level. He saw that Trump had left a huge sticky puddle on the chaise lounge.

"This is for Muslims and hispanics and women and fired _Apprentice_ candidates," Jeremy roared and his fired a hot load all over Trumps laughing, cackling even, face.

"I think that was a pretty productive trip boss, all things considered. Great turn out, they really hate Trump!"

Steve was chatting idly but Jeremy's thoughts were a million miles away.

"I think we'll get a lot of positive coverage for that. How was your chat with him? Is he as big an arsehole as he appears?"

"Hmm?" said Jeremy, rising from his slumber.

"Isn't Trump an arsehole?"

"Yes," said Jeremy, his thoughts drifting away again, "what an arsehole…"


End file.
